Melancholy Wine Soaked Tenderness

Sitting on a friday night, having returned from coffee and friends under streetlamps in parking lots. Glass of chardonnay in hand, I am my own company tonight among other nights. The house is quiet, no gentle snoring from little lungs down the hallway. Pictures remain unpainted but the brushes are there waiting, and the smell of acrylics tempt me to creative endeavour. Longing for visitors, the hour is late. One with whom to share the wine, to reminice of days past and to speculate on those to come. To wrap around in the dim candlelight and speak no more, only to wake to the mid-morning sun, with sheets entangled and heads swimming in white wine and afterglow.